


souls burn for souls, spirits to spirits cry

by orpheuslament



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Valentine's Day, also murder, killing people as a love language, theyre in love guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29447970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orpheuslament/pseuds/orpheuslament
Summary: Their bodies were found just outside of Naples, in a public park. The scene had been set in such a way that, according to commenters and reporters alike, reminded of a renaissance painting. The couple laid on the ground, hands linked and heads turned towards each other. A myriad of branches and flowers had been arranged around them, and they were both crowned with laurel leaves. The man’s heart had been carefully removed from his chest, and it lay now on the woman’s palm like a ripe fruit.Trust Hannibal Lecter to make Valentine’s day a bloody affair.aka will and hannibal kill some homophobes. as a treat
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 23
Kudos: 165





	souls burn for souls, spirits to spirits cry

They call it _The San Valentino Murders,_ because the press has never bothered with being creative. Will wakes up to an empty bed and a notification from one of his most trusted true crime forums, the one that helped them track down a rather reclusive serial rapist turned killer around two months ago, and doesn’t need to scroll down to where the anonymous poster has embedded a few furtive pictures of the crime scene to know exactly who these bodies belong to. 

He recognizes the names of the victims from the news and cheap daytime talk shows. Lorella Calvetti and Pasquale Farinella are both members of the Italian Parliament, best known for their extremely conservative views and being especially prone to social media conflict. 

Their bodies were found just outside of Naples, in a public park. The scene had been set in such a way that, according to commenters and reporters alike, reminded of a renaissance painting. The couple laid on the ground, hands linked and heads turned towards each other. A myriad of branches and flowers had been arranged around them, and they were both crowned with laurel leaves. The man’s heart had been carefully removed from his chest, and it lay now on the woman’s palm like a ripe fruit. 

The blurry, dark pictures, taken in the early hours of the morning, told him exactly what he already knew. 

Venus, Mars and Cupid crowned by Victory, by Paris Bordone. He had seen the painting, once, when they visited Vienna, and had taken a liking to it. Of course he would remember something like that.

There was some talk of radical political activism, of the murders being the result of “leftist terrorism”. The internet was going to have a field day with this one. At least it will keep the police occupied, and away from them. 

The real motive, Will knows, is far simpler than that. 

He sighs once, with way more fondness than he cares to admit, and gets out of bed. 

Trust Hannibal Lecter to make Valentine’s day a bloody affair. 

-

He finds Hannibal in the kitchen, as per usual. He doesn’t even turn from the stove to greet him, seemingly sensing his presence the moment he walks through the door. 

“Good morning, Will,” he tells him while lifting a pan off the fire. “There is fruit on the table and the coffeepot should still be warm.” 

Whatever he’s making smells heavenly, and reminds him of birthday mornings and boxed pancake mix. 

Hannibal turns to regard him with a small, honest smile, and leaves a quick kiss on the top of his head when he leans down to hand him a mug.

“You’re in a good mood today,” Will tells him before taking a sip of his coffee. 

“I am,” Hannibal replies while fussing with the presentation of two plates. “It’s a rather lovely day.” 

Will hums against the rim of his cup. “What are we having? Smells good.” 

“Pain perdu, with cloudberries and hand-whipped cream.” 

He’s incapable of hiding his amusement when breakfast is set in front of him. He bites the inside of his cheek to try to contain a grin, but ultimately fails. Hannibal sits down and stares at him with raised eyebrows, holding his fork between elegant fingers and waiting for him to speak.

“You made french toast for breakfast.” 

“Pain perdu, yes,” he says with a pointed look. “Eat, before it gets cold.”

“No one has made french toast for me since I was a kid.” Will cuts a small bite from his toast, scoops a dollop of cream and a berry, and brings it to his lips. It’s delicious, obviously. The berries sweet and tart, melding perfectly with the vanilla and the cinnamon. He closes his eyes as he chews. “It’s really good.” 

“I am glad to hear that,” Hannibal preens at the praise before taking a bite himself. 

They fall into an easy, comfortable silence while they eat, their knees bumping underneath the small kitchen table. 

Their relocation in Salerno had been a spur of the moment decision, more Will’s than anything else, and thus the house was not quite what Hannibal was used to. Smaller, cozier, no grand kitchen islands or ostentatious dining rooms. In his defense, he had taken to it with far more grace than he expected, making the most of their shared space. Then again, he also did spend three years locked inside a glass cage basically at his command, so he figures he must not really mind not being able to have ten people for dinner that much. 

Will liked the place. It was bright and airy, entirely Mediterranean, topped with a beautiful view of the Gulf. Their bedroom opened to a balcony practically suspended over the sea, and every morning they woke up to each other and the sound of seabirds. 

Except for today, of course. Today he had woken up with a body basically dumped at his feet. 

“I saw your Bordone,” Will tells him after their plates are empty.

Hannibal doesn’t even bother with pretending to not know what he’s talking about. “I was hoping to show you myself,” he says while gathering the remains of their meal, “a shame the authorities got to it before I had the chance.” 

“You did leave it in a public park.” 

Hannibal makes a show of cleaning up and setting the dishwasher before moving to stand behind his chair. Will rises, scoots over, and allows himself to be trapped between the firm wood behind him and Hannibal’s chest. He’s warm, and smells of wood and vanilla, and when he places his hands down at the sides of his hips and leaves him effectively caged, he finds himself exactly where he wants to be. 

“What did you think of it?” Hannibal asks him with a tilt of his head. 

Will throws his arms around his neck. “Impressive, but you don’t need me to tell you that.” 

Hannibal gives him an amused, crooked smile, looking infuriatingly proud. “I enjoy compliments as much as anyone else.” 

“I also found it excessive, even for you.”

“I found it rather apt. I often feel like both Victory and Cupid have blessed me when I see you.” His eyes narrow, and he all but pouts. “You don’t like it?”

Will laughs in disbelief and rolls his eyes, but tightens his hold and brings Hannibal’s lips to his own for a quick, chaste kiss. 

“I didn’t say that,” he tells him as Hannibal’s eyes soften. “But you could’ve just gotten me flowers.”

“I did. They’re on the entryway.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Will manages to mutter before he decides he’d rather be using his mouth for something else. 

-

Will’s gift comes later that night. 

The blood coating his arms looks pitch-black in the darkness of the apartment, the man lying prone on the floor squeals beautifully. He’d been looking forward to this one for some time. Antonio Lombardi had beaten a young man to near-death three months ago and had somehow gotten away with it with no more than a slap on the hand and a few hours of community service. The incident had gotten some traction due to the undeniable possibility of it being a hate crime, since there seemed to be no ulterior motive other than that the victim was walking out of a bar with his boyfriend when he was attacked. 

Now, he stares up and pleads for his life, asks him why he’s doing this in both English and Italian, and Will delights in breaking every single one of his ribs one by one. 

Hannibal has been allowed to watch, but not much else, and when he turns to face him with a knife and a still-warm heart in his hands, his already erratic breathing falters. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be prepared for the way Hannibal looks at him in moments like these, like a devotee staring at an apparition. Like he both fears and adores him. It’s intoxicating, sends his pulse racing the way no hunt has managed to. 

“Gorgeous,” Hannibal says, voice dark and mellow, but stays put where he’s standing. 

He wipes the knife on his trousers and carefully places the heart in the cooler they brought with them before walking towards him. He feels viscerally hungry, something in his very core begging him to feed it. 

He places one of his blood-soaked hands on his chest, smiles as Hannibal gives him a slight frown, and tilts his head up to speak against his lips. 

“Happy Valentine’s day.” 

“You’ve ruined my shirt.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Hannibal whispers before catching his lower lip between his teeth. 

Will opens his mouth against him, tastes the smell of blood in the air, kisses him until they’re both panting 

“Did you enjoy your gift?” 

“Very much, thank you.”

Will laughs, kisses the curve of his throat, drags his hands down the already stained white fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. 

“Let’s go home.” 

-

Underneath the sheets, they move as one. Every thrust of Hannibal’s hips sends a bolt of sharp pleasure down his spine. He digs his nails in the firm muscle of his back, and Hannibal leaves bite marks all across his neck and collarbones. Forehead to forehead, as close as their bodies allow them to be and then even closer, and breathing into each other’s mouth. 

The world melts outside the walls of their room. He doesn’t know where his skin ends and Hannibal’s begins, he doesn’t think it really matters. 

Hannibal brings him to the edge with expertise and keeps him there until he’s so overwhelmed a few tears threaten to spill from his tightly shut eyes. 

“Look at me,” Hannibal tells him between gasps. “Will, look at me.” 

He does and it’s more than enough. Hannibal’s eyes on him feel like teeth and he lets himself be devoured. He arches his back, lets out a silent scream, and comes between their bodies. 

“Beautiful,” Hannibal pants against his throat, his movements rough and frantic. “Beautiful. Perfect. Mine.” 

“Yours.” Will tightens his legs, feels Hannibal still as he finishes inside him. “Only yours.” 

-

They lay still for a bit, catching their breath and basking in the mere presence of the other. The night is silent and peaceful, and all their appetites have been sated. 

“I’ve never celebrated Valentine’s day before,” Will confides after a few minutes. “I didn’t expect you to.” 

Hannibal stretches like a particularly lazy cat and brings him closer with a hand on the back of his neck. He rests his head just above his heart and focuses on the sound of its beating. 

“I haven’t had any reason to do so, either. Before you.” 

“Sap.” 

He feels the rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest against his cheek as he laughs. “Guilty as charged.” 

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to show me the Bordone.”

Hannibal runs a hand through his hair, and his eyelids suddenly feel very heavy. 

“There is always next year.” 

Will hums, plants a gentle kiss on whatever patch of skin he can reach without having to move his head, and falls asleep with the certainty of having countless Februaries ahead of them.

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know if this is terrible or not but i dont wanna look at it anymore. have it. enjoy it. or dont, i cant tell you what to do. also happy valentine's day i hope you all had a wonderful day !  
> the title is from _love's entreaty_ , by michelangelo buonarroti.  
> kudos & comments mean id die for you


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